


In a Heartbeat

by dramatisecho



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Apocalypse, Drama, Fic Inspired by Pic, Gen, Inspired by Art, John Watson - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, Tumblr, Zombies, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-22
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 03:49:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatisecho/pseuds/dramatisecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In The House, In A Heartbeat - by John Murphy/28 Days Later OST || Zombie-AU one-shot inspired by Sherlock Art. Originally posted on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


 

Sherlock wasn’t in the flat.

Sherlock _wasn’t_ where John had left him.

It had been a long time since the doctor had felt such terror. His heart was seizing up, and beating so quickly that John feared it might tear a hole clean through his chest.

The ex-army captain had only been gone for five minutes, at the longest. He and Sherlock had been squatting in their flat when this whole mess began. How something like this even starts, John isn’t sure. One moment there were riots, and the next, the British government were announcing a city-wide evacuation. It had something to do with a virus. John wasn’t sure about all the details, but what he _did_ know… was that London was burning.

He’d always thought the possibility of a ‘zombie apocalypse’ was laughable.

His opinion had (oddly enough) changed by this point.

So, being the capable, war-trained soldier he was – John insisted that Sherlock stay barricaded in the flat, while he braved the streets to ransack the local pharmacy a few doors down. They needed provisions if they were going to be held up in the flat. John had felt a great swell of relief about the fact he’d done the food shopping the day before… but the city was far more violent now than it ever had been. If they were going to survive, they would need a host of medical supplies.

So, he’d armed himself, dressed in layers, and took to the streets.

For the most part, the walking dead were easy to evade. They weren’t all there, and their motor skills were considerably lacking. He was thankful that they didn’t have the capability to ‘run’ like those other zombies he’d seen in that movie once.

John picked off a few off as he barrelled his way into the deserted pharmacy. He had blocked the door, and proceeded to fill his rut-sack with as many pain-killers, antibiotics, bandages and medicines that he could. He even hopped behind the counter to clean out a few of the drawers filled with stronger, ‘behind the counter’ prescriptions that contained the likes of Vicodin, Fentanyl, and Codeine.

That had all been easy enough, and couldn’t have taken him more than five minutes.

But all the same… Sherlock was gone.

“Sherlock!” He yelled, frantically searching the entire flat for any sign of his partner.

When he turned up nothing, John bolted back to his room. He gathered up all his weapons, useful army gear, and everything else he would need to find Sherlock while (hopefully) simultaneously protecting himself from this damned Z-virus.

Sherlock would get an earful about staying put when he found him.

 _‘Unless he’s…’_ John immediately pushed that thought away. There was no chance that Sherlock had been careless enough to get infected. He wasn’t that stupid.

Then again, he _had_ been oddly fascinated by this ‘Z-virus’ that appeared to reanimate the dead. John had spent the past two days convincing him NOT to capture, nor allow, any zombies into the flat for experimentation. Sherlock’s excuse of: _‘Think of all we could learn, John!_ ’ hadn’t played well.

Stepping back out into the chaotic, overcast London streets, John was a bit dismayed to find that it had started to pour rain. That would lessen his visibility considerably, and that wasn’t good… especially since there were deceased, cannibalistic humans roaming around in search of a living meal.

Hearing a few low moans to his left, John turned, and unloaded a few rounds into a pair of approaching corpses; a bullet in each brain. Thankfully, they were easy enough to enable, and not too bright either.

“Sherlock?!” He bellowed again as he moved.

A few more infected turned in his direction. Shouting probably wasn’t the BEST method for finding his friend, but hell, John was desperate. He hadn’t seen another ‘living’ soul for days. Mycroft had sent Sherlock a text nearly a week ago about sending a help. But that still hadn’t happened. And John hadn’t even heard from Lestrade, which was a worrying thought in itself.

Grabbing the bat wedged in between his knapsack and holster, John took a few well-aimed swings at the approaching undead – and bashed their skulls in with a couple of solid hits. So much violence might easily scar anyone else… but John had seen his fair-share of horrible brutality during his time in Afghanistan.

He didn’t know these people. It was _him_ or _them_. All that mattered now was finding the only other person he cared about… the only other person, who up till five minutes ago, had been _alive_.

Sheathing the bat again, John tore down into the alleyway that bordered 221b Baker Street. He called out again as he rounded the corner… but was stopped dead in his tracks when he saw a familiar, tall, blue-robed detective.

But it wasn’t Sherlock…

No… _this_ creature was slightly hunched; not tall and proud like his Sherlock had been. The familiar royal blue robe was stained with dirt and a considerable amount of blood. There was more running down his pale throat, from what appeared to be an open flesh wound along the side of his right cheek. There were dark, discoloured circles beneath his lids, which by stark contrast, made his icy-coloured orbs all the brighter.

It wasn’t Sherlock. Not _his_ Sherlock…

“No…” John breathed out, unable to look away from the reanimated corpse of his friend.

Sherlock was looming over the dead body of a girl; her blood was spattered all along the pavement of the back alley – some even painting the side of Ms. Hudson’s bins. Slowly, the detective turned and set his cold, seemingly lifeless eyes on John. He wheezed, and appeared to be breathing much shallower as he took a step forward. Sherlock’s fingers were rigid and tense, and he walked with a slight gait; no longer gliding along with certainty and grace.

As Sherlock came closer– John finally drew his gun. It was becoming more and more difficult to see the approaching threat. A combination of heavy rain, and distraught tears were compromising John’s vision.

“I was only away for five minutes, Sherlock,” he choked out, shaking his head. “Five **bloody** minutes!” he screamed. John’s embodid rage was evident in the cry of his voice; he hadn’t felt this disoriented since that time he’d been drugged at Baskerville.

Sherlock continued to approach, gasping and hissing louder and louder with each step he took. John’s hand was shaking as he kept his weapon drawn on his best friend. He didn’t know what to do. His mind and his heart were telling him two different things:

Either he shoots Sherlock, and escapes with his life.

_Or…_

John winced, and took a quick glance behind him toward the mouth of the alleyway. More infected were still struggling their way down the street. Some were even fighting and grappling with each other.

The distant sound of sirens were of no comfort to him, and the sight of several pillars of smoke rising up into the cloudy sky from the various boroughs of London told a hopeless story…

Looking back toward Sherlock, John cursed and choked out a sob he’d been trying so desperately to hold in. _What could he do? What was the point?_

With certain death only steps away, John dropped his gun to the ground. He trembled and clenched his fists.

“I always knew you’d be my end…” he breathed shakily. “….S-Sherlock Holmes.”

Rather than live and survive alone in a city gone to hell, John decided to die at the hands of the only person he’d ever come to truly value. The only person he’d ever come to truly love.

Sherlock snarled and took a few, rapid steps forward - slamming John against the nearest brick wall. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and waited for the inevitable. He waited to feel Sherlock sink his teeth into his neck and rip out his jugular; waited to feel his boney, lean fingers plunge into his stomach and rip out his heart, his lungs, his intestine…

But it never came.

In fact, all he felt was a quick, playful nip to his jaw.

“So I’m convincing, am I?” That familiar baritone purred against his ear.

John opened his eyes and frantically looked up at his partner. He could see familiarity in the detective’s eyes; an energetic spark that wasn’t there moments ago. “W-What… WHAT the _fuck_?!” John cursed, tears still streaming down his face amidst the rain. His heart was beating a mile a minute.

“I told you those novelty Halloween wounds and scars would come in handy one day. You really must try to stop doubting me.” Sherlock mused with the barest hint of a smirk touching his lips. “We can create your infected-persona back in the flat. I have more wounds to apply, but these guises require _real_ blood. I saw this body and decided her blood was better served for _our_ purposes. Smear some on your clothing, and let’s head upstairs. I don’t know how acute the senses of the infected are; I obviously haven’t had the time nor resources to run sufficient tests. But I’d rather not chance using fake blood or syrup. If it _smells_ real, we have a better chance of convincing them we’re dead in order to make our escape.” He prattled on quickly. “Mycroft has been in touch. We must make our way to the palace of Westminster. We can rendezvous with the helicopter and M-”

Sherlock was cut short when John slammed his lips against the detective’s, gripping onto him as tightly as possible as he poured his worrysome heart into that embrace. Sherlock slowly returned it; he could feel John trembling, his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face gripping almost to the point of pain.

When they parted, John was still crying. He looked exhausted, and Sherlock felt a well-deserved pang of guilt. Perhaps _demonstrating_ his plan to John, in hindsight, was a poor choice. He hadn’t meant to scare him so badly. “You were going to let me kill you…” Sherlock confirmed.

“Y-Yes… yes, _god **dammit**_ …” John tried to clear the catch in his throat and pull himself together.

Sherlock lowered his eyes, and rested his forehead against John’s. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought that teasing you with my performance would have such serious repercussions. I was sure you would realize I wasn’t truly infected. Perhaps the chaotic environment isn’t the proper place to tr-”

“No, it’s not. It’s _really_ not, Sherlock.” John growled, still trying to slow his heart-rate down.

The lanky detective gave him a comforting kiss on the forehead. “I assure you… I only jest about our current predicament because I _know_ we will be fine. We **will** be fine, John,” he prodded, “I _will_ get us out of here.” Taking a moment to evaluate John’s eyes again, and make sure his blogger really was ok, Sherlock nodded. “Wipe some of this girl’s blood on your clothing. We’ll get back up to the flat from the back door… get your flesh-wounds applied… and after a quick acting lesson or two, we’ll be on our way.” He smiled excitedly.

John nodded, and straightened up; _soldier -mode resumed_.

He believed him.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

_The distant sound of sirens were of no comfort to him, and the sight of several pillars of smoke rising up into the cloudy sky from the various boroughs of London told a hopeless story…_

John opened his eyes, taking in a sharp breath as his senses kicked back on…

He slowly exhaled, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the dim candle light of the room. No power. Obviously. Fresh water was a problem too, but John would rather focus on the bigger issues facing them at the moment. He’d start by being grateful for the chance to catch a least six hours of sleep.

Turning his head, he looked beside him to see Sherlock still there, passed out on his side and breathing steadily. John’s eyes softened fondly. He’d given his best mate hell for the stunt he’d pulled a few days ago. He had thought Sherlock was for sure a goner… and John had never felt a greater sense of loss, of panic. And as upset as he’d been, John had to hand it to the detective; cloaking themselves in the blood of the deceased and adapting their mindless mannerisms had enabled them to travel through the city at a much faster rate.

They had arrived at the palace of Westminster, as per Mycroft’s instructions – but when they arrived, saw no helicopter or vehicle of rescue. Instead, there were two soldiers (who had been instructed to follow John’s orders, as he retained his rank of Captain), and five other survivors. Molly Hooper, Sally Donovan – who had taken it upon herself to look after a small boy, Spencer, also among them – and then two other men named Jacob and Matt. They had all loaded into a large, black SUV, and were instructed to drive to a ‘safe house’ outside of London in the country. They would receive further instruction once there. Frankly, John had just been happy to see other living beings.

Reaching over, he lightly ran the back of his finger against Sherlock’s temple. The detective stirred with a small noise, and opened his icy-blue eyes to rest on John. “…Did you hear something?” the deep baritone asked.

John shook his head, and removed his hand to sit up in the bed. He tilted his head to the side to crack his neck, and then rolled his shoulders. “…You think we’ll hear from your brother today?” he asked, voice a bit gravelly from sleep and overall weariness from this living nightmare. “It’s been three days.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just stared at John…

“John!” a shrill female cry startled both men up and right out of bed. They were still dressed (only made sense, considering that they all had to be ready to move at a moment’s notice), and quickly donned their coats and a variety of weapons before clambering down the old wooden staircase of the country home they were occupying.

“What’s wrong?” John was instantly in soldier mode as he approached the two assigned corporals. Sally had her arms wrapped around Spencer, and despite her muttering quietly to him that everything was alright – her eyes and face were stricken with fear.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, “Sergeant Donovan saw movement outside…” he explained.

John tentatively approached the boarded up window and gazed out between them, “…I… don’t see anything…” he muttered.

“You think I’m _lying_?” Sally snapped tensely, releasing the boy and walking over to another window, “I saw ‘im! They’re moving fast! I saw two shadows pass by the boards; it blocked out the light for a moment,” she insisted.

John narrowed his eyes at her, “They don’t _move_ fast. You were in London; you saw how they all hobbled around at a normal pace.”

“They have every capability that we have, John… save coherent thought.” Sherlock’s voice broke in calmly; though judging by the way his eyes were shifting around the space, his partner could tell he was already sizing up possible escape routes. “If there are infected out here… they may be inclined to run, as we would. The infected in London have no cause nor need to move very quickly because of it’s narrow streets and ample targets. Out here, however… fresh blood would be scarce. You saw those rotting lamb carcasses as I did when we arrived.” The detective pointed out, looking back to John.

Sally nodded, “Exactly!”

The sound of splinting wood caught the attention of everyone in the room – and they turned toward the back of the house.

The sound of terrified screaming, however, _confirmed_ everyone’s worst fear.

John and the two corporals were the first to investigate, followed by Sherlock. Sally opted to stay in the living room with the boy. When the group emerged through the kitchen, they saw Jacob standing at the back door, stunned into shock as he stared outside. “What the bloody hell are you _doing_?!” John snapped, “These doors and windows are boarded up for a reason!”

“T-There… Matt saw… Matt saw a girl… a girl outside s-s-she…” he pointed.

The army-doctor looked out to see Matt screaming and flailing around; a little infected girl chomped down onto his neck and clinging to him like some kind of rabid koala. John tore his eyes away to see two more infected charging in their direction.

He pushed Matt aside and slammed the door shut again. Of course without the added security of the boards, it would be a lot easier for those infected to get inside..

Already they were banging and slamming themselves against the door…

“I-I’m, we… we’re sorry! Matt didn’t think she was infected!” Jacob stammered, trembling as he backed away from the door.

John ignored him, “You two, bear down against it – DON’T let them in!” he barked at the two corporals. The soldiers nodded and propped themselves against the back door to barricade it themselves.

Sherlock was briefly distracted by the building chaos (and blatent _stupidity_ , his mind added) when he received a text from his brother.

It simply said: _Helicopter. The adjacent canal. Cannot wait. MH_

“We need to move…” Sherlock hissed, grabbing the bat slung across John’s back to arm himself – while the doctor pulled out his Browning and cocked it into a ready, loaded position.

Another crash of splintered wood had the pair turning and darting back into the living room. A pair of arms were grasping through the boarded window; bloody, scratched and strong, as they held Spencer’s small arm in a vice-like grip. Sally was screaming and doing her best to pull him away, but it was a fruitless cause.

John’s instinct immediately told him to move forward and help, but the sound of more barriers being broken had Sherlock grasping John’s arm – and directing him back up the flight of stairs. “Move!” he bellowed, herding the doctor up.

“Sherlock we’ve got to help them!” John yelled furiously,

“It’s too **late** John! You cannot SAVE everyone!” Sherlock reminded him. “Molly?!… Molly!” he called.

More screams echoed up from downstairs. Sherlock could hear the erratic thumping of infected rapidly combing the house. A few shots were fired, undoubtedly by the corporals who were doing their best to defend themselves…

Molly finally came out of her room a bit timidly, only to be pushed back in by John and Sherlock. “W-What’s going on?” she stammered,

“We’re leaving. We’ve got to leave!” John answered frantically, looking back at Sherlock who was standing in the doorway – watching the staircase.

The detective tensed when he saw the rabid form of an infected come clambering up the stairs. They locked eyes for only a moment, before Sherlock was inside the bedroom – slamming the door and locking it behind him. A loud bang came from the other side; frantic pounding, snarling and gasping leaking through the old wood of the door as it began to slowly but surely give way to the violent strain battering against it.

“Here!” John called, heading through the door connecting to the adjacent bedroom. “We might be able to get through this window…” he muttered to himself, pocketing his gun as he began to rip down the blinds and pry off the boards with nothing but his bare hands.

“Molly!” Sherlock snarled impatiently from the joining-bedroom door, watching as she frantically began trying to get dressed out of her pyjamas and gather some items. “There isn’t _time_!”

She was trembling as she moved, frazzled and obviously scared to death as the screaming and pounding began to surround them, “I-I just need to… I need to get some things! Just wait, wait…” she rambled. “I’m not ready!”

The locked door to the bedroom cracked, and suddenly, an infected male burst through.

It paused for a moment, blood drizzling out it’s mouth as it’s red, wild eyes jutted around the room, taking in both Sherlock and Molly as it stood between them.

Molly looked frozen stiff, “S-Sh… Sherlock…” she gasped in a whisper.

He grit his teeth, staring across at her sadly; torn between saving his dear friend and saving himself. More footsteps could be heard, thundering up the stairs and down the hall…

_He still had the bat… he could try and fend them off to save her… but the sound of more approaching infected meant they would soon be outnumbered… there was no telling how many were in the house now…_

When the infected turned on Sherlock – and made a dash for him – the detective slammed the door shut, and locked it. “SHERLOCK!” He heard her scream desperately from the other side.

The infected turned and darted toward Molly – who scrambled back into the old en-suite bathroom and slammed that door behind her.

John turned to see the tail-end of the events, “Molly!” He yelled, making a charge for the door. But Sherlock blocked him, and shoved him back toward the window, “We can’t HELP her John!” he boomed; obviously not comfortable with the idea of abandoning her… but intelligent enough to know when a battle was lost.

It was them or her.

 _If she hadn’t insisted on packing anything or fussing around with that infernal…_ Sherlock shut his mind off from that train of through, and instead, pushed open the window John had been unblocking.

The two climbed out onto the slanted roof, and skidded down the short slope to collapse on the ground outside the country home. John groaned at the impact, still somewhat in a daze – but Sherlock was there to latch onto his arm and pull him up, still clutching the bat in one hand. “Come on John… we need to _GO_ …” he insisted quickly.

A few more infected darted past them toward the front door of the house, obviously breached.

The two men took off in a dead run. John couldn’t help but take one more look back toward the house.

 _It was a mistake to do so_. He saw the haunting image of Molly Hooper, banging against the window of the bathroom she’d sought refuge in; screaming, begging them to go back for her…

Then suddenly, she was gone. Torn violently away from the window.

John choked out a sob, “Jesus Christ!”

“The canal… that runs alongside this property! Mycroft said he’d sent a helicopter!” Sherlock panted, “We need… need to…” Sherlock trailed off when he glanced behind him to see about five infected now chasing after him and John.

“Y-You _knew_ there was going to be a helicopter and you… you didn’t… SAY anything?!” He yelled heaving angrily as they ran. When he noticed Sherlock glancing behind them, John did the same, and saw the infected getting closer and closer, “Oh bloody fucking _shit_!” he cursed.

Sherlock did the same as he answered, “I only received the text… _moments_ ago!” he argued. “I TOLD you we had to _move_!… ”

As they followed along the narrow water canal that bordered the country home, Sherlock caught movement out of his peripheral gaze; nearly a dozen more infected had appeared over the top of the hill, and were running full scale toward them.

“Oh… _Christ._..” John panted, gritting his teeth as they ran.

“There!” Sherlock exclaimed – catching sight of the helicopter near the shore. The rotor blades were already running as the helicopter itself began to hover just above the ground, eager to take off.

The detective reached back and grabbed John’s hand into his own, signalling to make one, final push of everything; _every_ bit of energy they had left… to reach the helicopter.

The growling, screeching and howling of the oncoming herd behind them was multiplied, getting closer and closer as they reached the skid of the helicopter, diving into the safety of the fuselage as it began to take off.

As they rose, a few infected made desperate leaps and grasped onto the metal skids. Sherlock swung the bat he’d held onto, and battered them back off and onto the ground.

The helicopter finally passed up to an unreachable altitude, while the infected gathered beneath it – confused, snarling and twitching wildly as they assembled in mass, wondering where the living flesh had gone.

Sherlock rested back against the side of the fuselage, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. He looked over to see two of Mycroft’s agents, heavily armed – and already texting furiously on their phones. “…You can tell my **useless** brother… that he’s _late_ …” he snarled.

The two agents glanced at Sherlock, but didn’t say anything. One continued to text, while the other moved into the front passenger seat beside the pilot, giving him quiet instructions on where to go from there.

Sherlock looked back down to John, who was lying on his back on the floor of the fuselage, panting and attempting to regulate his own breathing. He looked fine for a moment; eyes hard, focused, in soldier survival mode.

But the realization that they were safe again seemed to set in… and before he knew it, John was openly weeping.

“…John.” Sherlock muttered sadly; the twinge in his voice almost sounded sympathetic.

His face held so much pain and remorse; regret for _not_ being able to save their companions. The palms of his hands came up to dig into his eyes.

_He’d always had a big heart. Doctor John. Soldier John. He always had wanted to help everyone…_

But in this world, in this _‘you-or-them’_ environment - John’s heart could get him killed. Sherlock _needed_ him to see that… he hoped, that despite their loss, John _did_ see it now.

Still. There was no shame in grieving over lost friends.

_Molly… in particular…_

Sherlock found his own eyes growing a bit misty as he grit his teeth and tried to push those inconvenient feelings of remorse away. Instead, he reached over and grasped John’s arm. He settled himself down, and pulled his weeping partner into his chest, between his legs; completely engulfed in his limbs as he cradled him close.

John continued to let out his pain, while Sherlock pressed his face into the warm, soft hair on the back of the army-doctor’s head. He inhaled slowly; the comforting scent calming him, slowly but surely, with the knowledge that the only person who REALLY matter to him… was _still_ here. Still alive

With him.

**Author's Note:**

> I did not draw this picture, and the art does not belong to me. Found on tumblr. The only thing I did was write an accompanying fic :)  
> Artist: http://inklou.tumblr.com/


End file.
